


Admissions

by AiyokuSama



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 04:09:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AiyokuSama/pseuds/AiyokuSama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce gets called to the Fortress, but not by Clark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Admissions

**Author's Note:**

> This bunny bit after reading Justice League V2 005, with Bruce running off after HIS boyfriend :P

The Bat frowns. He hates going to Clark's fortress.  


For one thing he's convinced that the AI doesn't like him. He is still very leery thanks to the last time he was here; he'd foolishly agreed to let the alien technology “shave” him. It was supposed to have been his beard. It wasn't his beard. 

“Clark?” he bellows, as he descends down from the Batplane. The scowl deepens when there is no answer. He's not in a mood for games. “Clark!” He storms off to the common area, or what passes for a common area in this place. Bruce memorized the layout the first time he visited. And then had found his knowledge next to useless since the AI has a habit of rearranging the configuration of the floor plan. Truthfully, this is only his third visit. A year ago the rumours of a “superman” had started. Of course he'd had to investigate and see if this new being posed a threat.

Clark's heart is too big for him to be a real threat to the Earth, but that hadn’t meant others wouldn't use him to that end. So it had been a simple matter of pragmatism which had Batman making contact. Or rather he’d intended to make contact, but Darkseid decided to be a pest. That had been....interesting.

The cowl stays on as he walks silently through the very white halls, made up of the quasi-living compound which is an extension of the AI. Blue eyes narrow behind the whiteout lenses to see if he could spot the walls shifting or something of that nature. But it all seems normal enough. Relatively speaking, of course.

For six months now, he's been working with Superman. It's a very strange thing. The man is everything that Bruce isn't. Open, honest to a fault, absolutely guileless to the point where Bruce sometimes wants to smack the alien. Naïve, maybe. But, so powerful. Scarily so. And determined to get Bruce to actually talk to him. It's become something of a game. Clark tries to get close and Bruce rebuffs him, usually pointing out that they have some crisis or other to deal with.

Twitching, Bruce looks around. He's getting an itchy feeling between his shoulder blades, and that never bodes well. It's tempting to just turn around and get back in the plane. But for all he knows, Clark is injured and unable to speak. 

“AI, where is Kal-El?” He addresses the thin air. Bruce has no doubt that the AI will recognize him. If it didn't it would have taken steps to dispose of him before the plane had even landed.

\\\Kal-El is currently in the bedroom chamber\\\ comes the oddly smooth electronic voice. Bruce raises an eyebrow. Small blue lights begin to dance along one wall, apparently showing him the way.

He knows why Clark has bedrooms in the fortress; they are for his guests. Clark himself doesn't need to sleep. So why would he be in one himself? Again his mind flashes to the alien being injured. He frowns. Bruce doesn't want to get too close to the others in the JL as it would impair his objectivity, but he cares just the same. Clark has been working hard to give Bruce reason to care. Infuriating man.

Following the lights he makes his way to one of the chambers, which is lushly appointed while at the same time being spare and almost sterile. Stepping into the room he wonders if the AI is playing a joke on him. There is no one here. Not on the bed or in any other part of the room. He looks up.

Oh.

He blinks and then does it again. Clark is floating in the air, very naked, eyes closed. He's apparently “recharging” as the ceiling is a transparent thing, allowing the bright sunlight in. Bruce shades his eyes, though the lenses are already changing to deal with the glare. 

As he watches, those beautiful eyes open and a smile appears on generous lips. Followed by a rather pronounced blush. Clark floats down and mumbles something that sounds like an apology as he opens a wardrobe that hadn't been there a moment ago. He pulls out a fluffy, white house coat and hastily wraps it about himself. But not before Bruce noted the extent of the blush. The corner of his lips twitched upward.

“Why did you call me, Clark?” It's always best to get right the point. Niceties waste time.

When the man turns back to him, there is a very honest and confused look on his handsome face. “I didn't call you, Bruce.” They both frown. Then Clark calls out to the air. “AI, did you call Bruce?”

\\\I did, Kal-El\\\ comes the curt reply.

“Why?” Clark beat him to the question.

\\\You previously expressed a desire to spend more time with the human.\\\

Bruce is almost pulled out of his frown by the fact that Clark is blushing hotly again. But his annoyance with the AI's deception is not so easily assuaged.

“This isn't what I meant!” Clark protests to the air, glaring at nothing in particular.

\\\You said, “he never stays put, he won't let me talk to him,”\\\ the AI explained rather unnecessarily, though it was interesting to hear what was obviously a recording of Clark's statements. 

The Bat decides now would be a good time to pull one of his disappearing acts. Clearly he isn't actually needed here and there are many other things that require his attention. He can't take a single step. Glancing down, Bruce sees that the floor has GROWN around his feet and calves, effectively holding him in place. When he twists his torso, testing the hold, the white substance rapidly grows up him until it encases his chest. He wonders how it’s holding him utterly immobile but still allowing him to breathe.

“AI, release him!” Clark roared into the air. 

\\\If I do that Kal-El you will lose your best opportunity to act on your feelings for the human.\\\

Bruce raises an eyebrow under his mask. His hands are still free, maybe.... But as soon as he thinks of it, the substance is moving again, breaking off at his knees and then flowing up until it's sheathed both hands and wrists. Before he could attempt anything a thin tendril shoots up to the ceiling (which is now mysteriously opaque) and his arms are yanked above his head. 

\\\The human's heart rate has elevated, Kal-El, as has his level of arousal.\\\

“Stop it, AI! Bruce has made it clear he's not interested!” Superman stalks over to where Bruce is being held still and large hands start doing something that begins to carve strips of the white substance off of his legs.

\\\With words, yes, but his body is saying something very different, Kal-El.\\\

Both men go very still. While the Batsuit's jock allowed for a lot of deniability, Clark isn’t human and he's not limited to what his eyes see. The Kryptonian stands up and leans toward Bruce's armour covered neck. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the pheromones that the world's greatest detective has no power over. “Bruce?”

He frowns. The denial is on his lips. There is no time for a relationship; it would only get in the way. Bruce knows that the Mission demands sacrifices, and companionship is one such. So he pushes what he’s feeling down and growls, “Release me, Clark. Now.” He's a bit surprised when the alien just stands there, watching him.

“If I do, will you give me an honest answer?” The words are soft, as he seems to be considering something only he is aware of. 

Bruce grinds his teeth. “Clark.” The name is said with much menace and warning. And it's utterly ignored. Instead, Clark steps back. Clark's lips move, but Bruce can't make out if anything was said.

“I didn't trust you when we first met. You scared me. A human who knew me, knew about me, and wasn't afraid of me.” The words seem to pour out. He'd never thought Clark suffered from verbal diarrhoea. Apparently today is a day of revelations. “I didn't know what to make of you. But I didn't really have time to think about it, the planet was being attacked and then I was taken to Apocalypse. And you came after me.”

Bruce doesn't miss the wonderment in his tone. It sent chills up his spine and blood rushing to places he is resolutely not thinking about.

“You came after me.” Clark repeats as if that explains everything. “I think. I think I fell in love with you then. And again, every time you challenged me. You're my equal Bruce, maybe not in power, but in every way that matters. Do you have any idea how much that means to me?”

“Clark. This isn't appropriate.” The voice that makes Gotham criminals wet themselves only seems to give Clark reason to reach up and cup his masked jaw. The thumb strokes the exposed skin and Bruce can't help noting how warm it is. And how flawless. Clark doesn't have callouses.

Then the thumb is passing over his lips and thought becomes that much harder. As does something else. No, he has to be the strong one. Clark is all to easily ruled by his emotions. He needs Bruce to keep things in perspective. He tries again. “Clark, you need to release me. Now.”

He might as well be talking to stone. Very warm, sensuous stone that seems to find Bruce's lips fascinating. “Kal-El!” He puts real force behind the name, trying to get the man's attention. And he gets it alright, but there is a kind of fire behind those lovely eyes that makes him wonder if that name had been a mistake. It's because of his detective mind that he looks Clark over for other clues to what he's thinking. A perfectly innocent reason to be looking at the man's groin, which is now pushing at the barely adequate robe.

He forces himself to relax, to not react in any way. Or that was the plan. He can't stop himself from swallowing nervously. Bruce is, after all, in a very vulnerable position. That one action attracts Clark's attention in a way nothing else has. “Clark...”

“If you tell me you don't want this,” the Kryptonian closes his eyes and Bruce becomes aware of how that gaze contains a physical heat now that it's gone. Especially when they open again and look at him pleadingly. “If you don't want me, tell me.”

The Bat frowns. “I told you, it's not appropriate,” he repeats with some annoyance. The game has gone on long enough. 

“That's not the same thing,” Clark points out. Then Bruce's lips are buzzing faintly. Had he just been kissed at super speed? “Tell me you don't WANT me, that you don't want my love for you.”

It should be easy; Bruce is after all an accomplished liar. And what's one more lie for the sake of the Mission or the functionality of the Justice League? But his mouth won't work. This time he can see Clark leaning in, then feel those perfect lips on his own, working so gently as if learning him by touch. It's with a sense of betrayal that he realizes he's opening to the kiss.

Bruce has kissed many people, men as well as women, and he knows he's an accomplished kisser. Clark on the other hand is not. In some ways it's like the fumbling of a teenager on a first date. But how many first dates involve bondage?

“I want you,” Clark breathes into his neck, which is still covered in armour. “You are so incredible, Bruce. You try so hard to keep others at arms length, but I can't. I need to touch you, be with you. Let me, Bruce. Please.”

He needs to deny the words, he has to get himself back under control, take charge of the situation. Instead he finds himself leaning towards the man, his lips lightly parted. His heart pounds as he strains against the organic bonds around his forearms and lower legs. 

“Thank you.” Then the alien is speaking fluid Kryptonian. Bruce only vaguely registers that the white substance has sprouted tendrils that are currently working the catches of his armour. In the proper sequence no less so that none of the traps are triggered. Clark begins peeling the sections off as they came free, discarding them carelessly on the floor. 

Warm hands push up under the simple white shirt he wears. But Clark makes no attempt to remove it. Instead, those strong fingers play over his ribs, caressing his obliques before moving up to find his nipples. Bruce can't help but take a shuddering breath as his body trembles. Every touch seemed super charged, designed to drive him mad with desire. He wants. Oh he wants. 

“Bruce. You're so beautiful. Always so beautiful. Perfect. Let me pleasure you.” Clark's hand is now on his cloth-covered groin. The heat of it is incredible, then he can feel the strength of Clark’s oh so careful grip as the digits encircled his turgid length. A gasp is shocked out of him. He couldn't stop his hips from moving, pumping into the touch with obvious need.

Clark smiles like a child being given a special treat. Even in this there is an innocence about him. Bruce resolves once more to stop this. It's wrong to take advantage of the alien this way. Of his...friend. “Clark, we can't--” And the rest is forgotten when a near howl escapes him, his compatriot's too hot mouth engulfing the head of Bruce's penis. He's lost in waves of sensation that is utterly beyond words.

Thinking has become impossible, which is perfectly terrifying to one who has always prized his wits. And yet, there is something glorious about it. Seductive. This way lies freedom, though from what he's not sure. A strong hand on his hip, holding him still as Clark learns how to take more of him in. Bruce can feel himself nudging the back of Clark’s throat and super muscles flexing, trying to swallow.

“Ca—Careful,” he manages and there is a thoughtful hum around his hard flesh. Clark IS being careful. It's not as if Clark would ever mean to hurt him, but Bruce is so very vulnerable like this, and the pressure of Clark's throat is alarming. At the same time, Bruce wants it, wants that power.

The tongue is now working him and that's good. Except that soon Clark is stimulating the sensitive glands. Bruce's hips shake hard. “I'm. I won't last,” he warns as he marshals his formidable will to stave off his orgasm. Clark seems quite determined to thwart his efforts.

His mouth hangs open as he pants, then shouts when Clark’s teeth lightly graze him. His vision whites out as his finely honed body arches hard, shooting into the moist heat of Clark's mouth. Part of him is glad he can't hear whatever sounds he's making, as he has no doubt that they are horrifyingly undignified. Then all he can do is hang from the bindings holding him suspended from the ceiling. His eyes won't focus and it's just so much easier to close them. He's safe enough here after all. He just needs a moment to gather his thoughts or what remains of them.

Part of his mind notices that Clark is stroking various muscle groups in turn. Slowly. Very slowly. Then he realizes that his flaccid penis is tingling. And very clean. Bruce cracks an eye open, meaning to glare at Clark who he suspects just cleaned him up at speed. The man isn't there any more. He's behind him. And those lovely, strong fingers are playing over the small of his back, slowly moving lower. But the touch is meandering as he seems to follow the lines of Bruce’s body, moving with the curves of the muscles. It's not ticklish, but the touch is definitely maddening. Promising, even, though he's not sure what is being promised.

No, wait, perhaps the touches are a request. They vacillate from firm and sure to gentle and questioning. Just before Bruce growls a demand for...something, there are warm lips next to his ear.

“Will you allow me, Bruce?”

There is no need to ask what he means as he feels a slick (slick????) finger moving slowly along the cleft of his backside. He needs to stop this, even if it's selfish to have let Clark bring him to completion and not return the favour. But this isn't going to work, it can't. They both have jobs, cities and people that count on them to not be distracted.

“Please,” comes a whispered word as he feels the tip of the finger pressing to his tight pucker. Once more, it's becoming very hard to think of anything other than the delightful and terrifying sensation. It's mortifying to realize that he's nodding, leaning his head towards the lips, trying to get some contact. Then the finger is pressing in, and Bruce grunts as his hips buck away from the intruder. But a strong hand is on his hip, holding him in place. And a tongue is slowly tormenting his ear, distracting him at least partially as the fingertip moves slowly, teasing the tight ring of muscle.

Breathing is be coming an optional thing as far as Bruce's brain is concerned. His efforts hitch randomly as the alien works him slowly, tenderly and relentlessly. Every too-warm touch is vying for his focus. At some point the hand on his hip moved and is now splayed over his chest, one fingernail flicking at a nipple. It's a minor thing, and yet it feels impossibly intense. Less—more?—so as the finger pushes deep inside his bottom.

For a moment, he can feel Clark's smile against his neck, then his pulse point is being licked. And at the same moment the finger is squirming inside him. It's far to soon, but Bruce is shocked to realize his penis is trying to rise. Especially when the finger starts stretching and preparing him. His powerful chest heaves as he gasps, and the action moves his abused nipple against the fingers that have decide to tweak.

Bruce's eyes are open, but glazed. A small part of his mind wonders if he's been drugged, but no. He's simply at the mercy of intoxicating sensations. The large finger begins a slow glide most of the way out of his rectum and he can't help but whimper. That whimper turns into a hoarse shout as Clark bushes back in with two fingers. And twists his nipple harshly.

“Beautiful,” the Kryptonian breathes into his ear just before the fingers move inside him.

Bruce is surprised to realize that his hips are shallowly thrusting, since they are no longer restrained, working himself back on the hot digits. He grunts like an animal as the thrusts become faster and deeper. “Do it,” Bruce growls before he can think about it.

Clark goes very still, maddeningly so. Bruce tries to move his hips and encourage him, only to realize that the hand is no longer on his chest but is back to holding him still. “Are you sure?” There is something young and possibly even worried about the question.

He's nodding and belatedly Bruce realizes that at some point he'd closed his eyes. Opening them, he turns his head, needing to see his friend. “Yes,” he says firmly as he looks to the other, holding his gaze. The look of understanding is nothing to the hope and joy that comes over Clark's expression. Then he's being kissed, hard and so very needfully, but that's as much on his part as on Clark's.

The angle of the kiss is awkward, but they don't stop even as he can feel the head of Clark’s member pushing at his slicked hole. When Clark starts the slow push in, Bruce registers his displeasure by biting Clark's tongue. It's odd to feel the tongue go from being harder then human to something very plaint. A small part of him would like to run some tests on that. Then such thoughts are completely forgotten as his partner thrusts in hard and fast, yet still so carefully. 

Bruce howls once more and his eyes go wide and sightless. There is no waiting. He feels Clark panting against his neck, then he's being bitten, just hard enough that he yells for it. Strong hands are splayed over his torso, holding him still as Clark begins to thoroughly use Bruce's body, pushing in and out, making maddening changes in angles as if he's... Bruce screams as the punishing length begins to work his prostate.

There are no thoughts. There is simply no room for thoughts. There is only sensation and the knowledge that he's with Clark, that Clark will not hurt him. Clark who wants to be with him, to give him everything Bruce will accept. He should think about what that is, but that's asking for far more then he's capable of at the moment.

For now, all he can do is feel and simply be the sensations that are washing over him, claiming him. It's so much, too much. Every nerve is on fire as Clark pistons in and out of Bruce's willing body. He can't. Can't. His breath comes in gasps. His innards are spasming, clenching and he's screaming again as he comes a second time. A second scream joins his own as Clark's hot seed shoots deep within. Strong arms clasp him close, holding them both still as they coast on the waves of shared pleasure.

Bruce is the first to recover. It takes Clark much longer, to the point where Bruce is starting to become concerned. 

“Bruce?” Clark queries. “When did you get your hands free?” 

Bruce smiles ever so slightly. Holding the man standing behind him around the neck is awkward, so he slides his hands to wrap loosely around Clark’s waist, unwilling to let Clark remove himself.. “A moment ago. There was an experimental enzyme in my gauntlets.” 

“And you only just....used it?” Comes the confused question.

“Yes.”

Lips are on his ear lobe, tenderly mouthing it. The words that come are warm and fond. “I love you, Bruce.”


End file.
